You Just Thought the Cold War Was Over
by Germerica
Summary: America decides to use his birthday tickets from Russia to visit said nation for some "good will spreading". However, Russia has other plans... USUK and One-Sided RusAme
1. Chapter 1

American Ingiunity

Summary: America's luck is running out, and so is Russia's patience.

Rating: T

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

A sharp pain exploded in America's shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, praying, that if he squeezed them tight enough, he'd wake up and it would all just be a nightmare. Another sharp pain, this time in his ribs. Make that night terror...

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He bit his lip. He should of ripped up those tickets to Siberia that Russia had given him for his birthday. I won't cry! He told himself, so he held back the hot tears. Cold, leather-gloved fingers roughly grabbed him by his chin, jerking his head up to look through cracked spectacles and blurred vision into lavender irises.

"Почему вы будете сопротивляться, товарищ?"The silver haired man nearly purred in a thick Russian accent, gently laying the lead faucet pipe right above the American's temple.

America gave the Russian a rye smile, "Can't answer you if I don't know what the Hell you're saying." He spat.

A deep, rumbling chuckle was elicited from the Russian as he raised his faucet pipe. Pain ravaged America's every nerve and his vision disapeared in a bright flash. He heard himself yelp and he felt the blood trickle down from his forehead over his nose, lips, and chin, then down to his white dress shirt, staining it a deep mahagony.

"Now your shirt is as red as the stripes on your damned flag, comrade." Russia cooed.

America was shaking violently. He felt sick, but he resolved to hold on to his diginity. The sick Russian bastard wasn't going to defeat him. The chilly curve of the pipe gently touched the American's cheek. He squirmed against the thick ropes. He could hear and feel the rope rubbing against his arms, weathering down his precious, now blood stained bomber jacket.

"Почему вы так сопротивляться, Америка?" Came the thick Russian accent again. He accentuated his words by gently stroking the American's bruised cheek with the pipe.

Another smirk played across the American's lips, "English, please? Or can your simply commie mind not handle that?".

A sharp leather-enforced slap was delivered by Russia. America looked at him, his smirk still held in place (if only just barely). Smug cerulean eyes locked onto narrowed lavender eyes.

"I'm growing impatient, America. I'm unpleasent when I'm angry." He snarled.

"You're unpleasant even when content." Came America's rebuttal.

The Russian chuckled, a cruel smirk gently slid across his pale lips. Once agian, cold, leather-gloved fingers grasped the American's chin. Though the contact was much milder, much more gentle, then previous endevors, it sent a sick feeling plummeting into America's stomache.

"You are stupid. What did you expect upon your arrival to Siberia, hmmm? A warm welcome and a bouqet of sunflowers?" He sniffed.

The American didn't respond, despite his utter disire to have a snappy comeback. He could hear the maddening "tiktok" of Russia's watch as the seconds passed by in silence. America still had nothing to say. What exactly had he expected? He himself wasn't quite sure, but he knew for certain it wasn't being dragged to a dark, damp interrogation cell and beaten senseless. God forbid the arrogant young man ever wish that upon himself!

"Well? I'm waiting." Came the amused Russian's purr.

"I...I don't know..." America finally admitted, "But not this you Commie bastard!" He spat in disguist.

"Or maybe you did." He chuckled darkly, "Why else would I neglect to include a return ticket? You are a glutten, but for punishment?" He trailed off, now running his fingers throw America's hair, stopping briefly to attempt to tame the wild strand.

America scowled, he opened his mouth to say something, but words evaded him. He felt a warm, wet droplet make its way down his cheek, leaving a cold trail behind. A single tear. Russia ran his gloved index finger under the American's eye. America instantly had to swallow back more. He. Would. Not. Cry... Another sharp pain. He didn't know where the blow was struck... all he knew was that every fiber in his being was screaming in angony.

He heard himself (or at least he thought it was himself with what little of the concious thinking he had left. It sounded so distant he couldn't tell...) cry out in pain and into choked sob. He saw a blur lunge at Russia and then another, then another. He heard shouts and curses though they sounded far away. As one of the blurs moved toward him, he tried to stay awake.

"Mattie...?" he whispered before his world dissovled into darkness...

America opened his eyes. The room he was in was bright, torturously so. Wait, he thought, where the hell am I?

awake. Good. I was begining to believe you had keeled over and died."

Enland sat in a chair with a thick book in hand and an untouched cup of tea on a little table beside him. He had a smile on his lips, however, thus said smile didn't quite reach his emerald eyes. America nodded solemly, for once choosing not so respond immediately and simply take in the atmosphere. He looked at England, still focused on his injured Ally. His normally bright, green eyes were bloodshot and dull from what America deduced was from lack of sleep. Sleeping on the unoccupied hospital bed beside him was Canada. He, like England, was covered in bruises and and cuts, but other than that, he seemed okay. France walked him, his arm in a sling, and smiled.

"Well, well, well! Look who decided to wake up!" He cooed, "Four days of sleep and we were beginning to worry."

"Four days?" America yelped, trying to sit up quickly but only to cry out in pain again and be pushed back down by England.

"You are in no condition to be making sudden movements like that, Alfred!" He snapped, then turned to tell France to "shut his froggy mouth".

America lay back and let them bicker. He closed his eyes again. It had all felt like a dream, but he knew better. His aching, exhausted body told him so. He could feel the lingering thoughts from (apparently) four days ago ringing in his ears;

"You are stupid. What did you expect upon your arrival to Siberia, hmmm? A warm welcome and a bouqet of sunflowers?"

He could feel a headache begin to throb in his temple. He squeezed his eyes tighter.

"Why else would I neglect to include a return ticket? You are a glutten, but for punishment?"

The throbbing worsened.

"America?" Came the whispery voice of Canada, "You're crying..."

America's eyes flew open and he could feel the cold trails of the warm tears. Canada's eyes were coated with concern, his mouth drawn up into a tight line. America looked at his brother and forced a faltered, weak smile.

"Its nothing Matthew. Honest." America insisted.

"You're lying, Al... " Came his quiet reply.

"What? Heros don't lie!" America blurted.

"Bro... You can't be the Hero all the time."

Silence fell between them. For the American, it felt as if three miles had been placed inbetween them with one sentence.

"Alfred? I'm sorry..." Canada softly spoke in his usual, appeasing way.

"No. You're right..." America quietly responded.

Canada stayed a few minutes longer, even though nothing else had been said. When he left, he apologized agian (though America wasn't sure wrong, afterall his brother really hadn't done anything wrong) and kissed America on the top of the head.

America was alone. France and England had already left because they had been politely asked to leave due to their bickering and the doctor told them to come back to the next day, preferable at different vistiting hours. So there he sat, alone, with all the thoughts of the previous day rattling around in his head. He tried to sleep, but it would quickly evade and mock him. He tried to not think about it, but Russia's words just kept running in circles over and over and over again in the American's head.

When the doctor finally came to check on America, he gave him strong pain medication for his aching body. It wasn't but ten minutes before America could sleep, but before conciousness had slipped away, America could hear Russia's voice;

Готовы ли вы дать, товарищ...?


	2. Chapter 2

"Hospitals are boring..." America whined to England, tossing aside the stupid, childish alien magazine he'd been reading in a dramatic display.

The Englishman, however, paid him no mind and instead chose to quietly ignore the yank and sip his tea, eyes skimming over the tiny print of his thickly-bound, yellow-paged fantasy novel.

"Englaaaaaand! Talk to me! I'm booooored!" the American persisted.

With an exasperated sigh, England moodily shut his book and looked at the blonde in the hospital bed.

"Okay, America. You officially have my attention. Now, what do you want?" England sighed.

America began to rant. And whine. And complain. And then some more of each. England slumped back into his uncomfortable chair which had been his bed for the past two nights. It had been much quieter before America had woken up. He had either been asleep or pumped full of sedatives and was so drugged he could barely form a full coherent sentence and would have a tendency to randomly burst into fits of laughter (the latter of which England found thoroughly amusing). Why don't I just leave? He's a big boy... England thought as he listened half-heartedly to the young man's woes. Though, of course, England decided it was best to stay with the boy. Though he hated to admit it, it felt like he was the big brother again: standing by the younger nation in his time of need, being needed, taking care of him. America was his former colony after all... No! Stop it! He told himself, you'll only work yourself up!

"Fucking Russia…" England heard America snort when he came back to earth, "I go over there to visit because he's gotta be lonely and why let good plane tickets go to waste and what's the bastard do? He tried to fuckin' kill me! That's what Fuckin' Russia did..."

The heart monitor hooked up to America began to loudly beep and it wasn't five minutes before a nurse with a pager ran in. After realizing there was no problem (other than the fact that America probably hadn't taken his A.D.H.D medication in days) she began to heartily scold America, much to England's amusement. Serves the git right for getting himself worked up, England mused to himself while attempting to suppress a smirk. After a darn good chastising, the nurse left America with cheeks reddened in humiliation.

"Well now. I say, Good show!" England busted out into a fit of giggles.

America's already red cheeks deepened into a light crimson as he witnessed the Englishman laughing at him.

"S-shut up!" He spat, narrowing his eyes and trying to keep himself from reddening further.

"Alright, alright, but only so you don't cause that nurse to run in here again." England replied, scooping up the foolish magazine that had landed on the floor and handing it to America, earning a muttered "thanks".

A few moments of silence passed between them. England sipped once more at his now lukewarm tea and was about to reach for his thickly bound novel when America spoke once more,

"Hey England..." He began slowly, his tongue testing out the words as he spoke, "how did you guys find me...? You, France, and Canada?"

"Well... It wasn't as hard as we feared, yet not as easy as we had hoped. You see, when you didn't come home when you said you would, your boss became rather worried. He telephoned Matthew's boss asking if you were there. When Canada didn't know where you were, he recruited France and I to assit him to find you. We searched all over Siberia until and old couple in a town near your location stated that they recognized the description we gave for you and pointed us in the right direction. Once we reached the town, we managed to get the location after persuading some local officers..." England replied.

America seemed thoughtful, "So you went through all of that... just for me?"

"... Well... I guess you could say tha-"

"You guys fuckin' rock." America interjected before England could finish."... Thank you" England finally replied followed by a chuckle.

America was in darkness. So dark that if he was to hold his hand in front of his face he wouldn't be able to see it. His heart was pounding. Make that racing. He had no Godly idea where he was and it was so damn cold... And echoing chuckle could be heard bouncing off the walls. America stood in what he feared was the center of the room where the mystery chuckler could sneak up from behind...

**SCREAM!**

Cold hands firmly clasped themselves onto the American's shoulders. Cold, leather-gloved, monolithic hands. A scream bubbled up from the depths of America's throat but never had the chance to escape when an aforementioned cold, monolithic, leather-gloved hand clamped down over the American's mouth, choking back the scream. Cold lips placed themselves by his ear,

"Why do you resist my dear comrade, Amerika? Don't you like the hell I have created for you?" That Russian accent stung in America's ears.

"N-no!" The American sputtered once he had pried the thick hand from his face, "This is sick!"

The Russian chuckled a dark and sinister chuckle, as if only chortling to himself to make America's skin crawl which was, sadly, a great possibility. The hand clasped on his shoulder tightened its grip, causing a sharp pain to pulse in America's muscles.

"Da… It is," Russia spoke slowly, his tone disturbingly soothing, almost a soft coo, "But I have my reasons, comrade… reasons that your stupid, feebly mind cannot comprehend yet."

"Stupid? Feeble? "America snapped, "I'll be damned if you call me stu-," the hand clamped down over his mouth again, only tighter this time, choking America off mid-sentence.

"Da. Your mind is feeble and stupid because you haven't figured out that you are just a puppet yet."

America wriggled and squirmed in the Russian's grip to no avail. He attempted to protest his discontentedness, but once again Russia's grip held fast.

"Don't protest. Just listen…" He said softly in that same comforting voice, "England colonized you, and you were content until the colonists told you that you weren't, so you rebelled. The other Allies tricked you into join both World Wars, and I myself steered you into the Cold War because I wanted to see how strong you _truly_ were. But now, you are weakened. Your economy is in a pitiful state, your people are unhappy, and your government is lost."

He took the hand that was clasped on America's shoulder and snapped his fingers, and a small spotlight appeared and under said spotlight was a full length mirror. Russia gently shoved America towards the mirror, hand still firmly in over his mouth; his other hand resumed its place on his shoulder. America was trembling uncontrollably and could feel any control he might have had slip through his shaking hands. Closer and closer they approached the mirror, until Russia forced him to halt right in front of it. America squeezed his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes." Russia cooed in his ear.

Weary and defeated, America opened his eyes. There, in the mirror standing before him, was someone who looked just like him, of course. But it wasn't him… was it? Yes… It had to be, he was looking into a mirror after all, but what the hell was he wearing? Texas was still perched on the bridge oh his nose, and his bomber jacket was still held snuggly around him, however, a crimson red scarf with an attractive white and blue trim was wound around his throat. While this still disturbed America, there was still something wrong… then he spotted it. His eyes. His beautiful eyes were no longer that bright, pure, cerulean blue, but a pale shade of lavender.

America began to thrash in Russia's tight hold, yet as always, Russia held tight, that annoying little smile plastered to his face. Then he spoke,

"I will give you time to reflect on what you have seem, Amerika. Just remember, you are not your own, you're a puppet…."

"Damn it all, Alfred! Wake up you bloody wanker! It's just a dream!"

Through the haze of the nightmare and sleep came England's annoyed voice (Or was it concerned? To America, sometimes it was hard to tell…). But the shouting Brit persisted until America opened his eyes. It was definitely concern in England's voice and not annoyance, America decided, it was etched in his eyes.

"About damn time you woke up!" He huffed, some of the concern slipping into agitation, but not much, "you've been wailing like a banshee for almost twenty minutes!"

America felt England's grip tightening on his shoulders and yelped, earning a confused expression from the other. The America was fully awake now, eyes wide and wild and terrified. His hand shot up to his shoulders and curtly swatted away the Brit's hands, then gently caressed his neck, a slight sigh of relief passing his lips. The American then wrapped his arms around his chest in an attempt to lessen his trembling.

Any agitation and annoyance in England was quickly substituted with worry for the nation beside him. He gently took America's face in his hands, only to receive an unexpected hostile reaction. The American smacked the Brit's hands off his face and glared daggers at him.

"_Don't touch me,"_ His voice was cold and laced with fear.

England was roughly taken aback, "America…" He whispered hoarsely, "Please calm yourself. It was just a nightmare." He offered weakly, being careful to resist the urge to embrace the trembling country.

This seemed to help. America's blue eyes softened, and his shaking was decreased, but not yet ceased. England pressed forward with weary caution, not wishing to evoke more negativity from the American.

"You're alright. Whatever happened isn't real, it was a dream." England spoke as one would speak to a spooked animal.

The American grabbed onto England, burying his face into the other's chest. He wasn't crying, but he was trembling again, but not as severely as before. England gently ran his fingers through America's silky, golden hair just as he used to when America was a child. For once he felt it would be justice to let his "big brother" instincts take over as he gently hummed an old English lullaby (once again from America's youth) and rocked the American back and forth gently. England felt the trembling stop, but he continued his soothing routine, and if he heard a sniffle from the young man, he'd make soft shushing coos to relax the other. Somewhere in the house, a clock was tolling the new hour and England wasn't sure how long he had been cuddling America, or why he still was, or what had spurred America's need for this attention, but he knew he was holding him and that he didn't plan on letting go soon. Question would have to wait until the morning, but until then, England decided, he's relish the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

England was reluctant to leave America even though the duo was in America's apartment in Washington D.C. This reluctance was only amplified with the next World Meeting approaching, the host city being located in Moscow of all godforsaken places! Irony truly did have a sick sense of humor.  
America's cell phone which had been quietly laying on the countertop began to ring, moving slightly with the vibrate feature between each ring. America bit his lip and limped over to the counter, picking up the cellular device and placing the reception piece to his ear.

"Hey, boss…," he said quietly.

"Jones… Get to my office. _Now" _America's boss scowled into the phone.

"…Yes sir…" America said, clicking his phone shut.

England watched as America limped over to the coat rack and snagged his jacket off the hook, and then scavenged for his keys in the pockets. As soon as he had successfully pulled them out, England snatched them from the American.

"I'm driving." He stated matter-of-factly.

America didn't press the issue, much to England's (though content) shock. It wasn't a long drive. America lived only about fifteen minutes away from work (though he used to live in an apartment on the quieter side of town; he moved due to the growing demands of his presence) and upon arrival, America was hesitant to get out of the car.

"Is something the matter?" England asked when America finally crawled out of the vehicle.

"No… nothing." America said softly, slowly making his way up the stairs to his awaiting boss.

In the lobby, America turned to England.

"Stay here. I'll come get you when we're done. Okay?" he mumbled.

England didn't argue, he only nodded his agreement and sat in a waiting chair.

"Fuck Jones!" His boss shouted, "Do you realize what you've done?"

"Yes sir… I'm sorry sir." America responded from his seat in front of his boss's, head bowed.

"No. I don't think you do. You went and got the living hell beaten out of you and also, because of _you and your irresponsibility _we don't have the money to even the score. And even if we did, we wouldn't because Russia's boss has been apologizing up and down all damn day for what Russia did. He even voluntarily paid your damn medical bills for Christ's sake!" The President was fuming now.

America sat stoically in his uncomfortable, wooden chair. His eyes were trained on the floor. He couldn't bear to look up and face his infuriated boss. He hated nothing more than getting in trouble; than getting yelled at. It was humiliating. It was degrading. He felt his eyes and cheeks burn hot from holding back tears and the mention of his economy wasn't helping…

"Are you listening, Jones?"

"Yes sir." The young nation choked out.

The President began taking deep breaths. Once he worked himself back down and had mostly regained his composure, he turned towards America and spoke,

"We're going to pretend nothing ever happened. The Russian government is willing to cough up a lot of money to keep this quiet. And you're going to be civil and pretend this didn't happen either. Got it, Jones?"

America flexed his shoulders to keep them from shaking with the racking sobs he kept swallowing back.

"Jones! Wake up! Answer me, now!" His boss growled.

"Yes sir… All of this never happened…" America whimpered, the words burned his throat and mouth as he said them.

"Good. Dismissed…"

America was out of the room before his boss finished his sentence.

America ran to the bathroom. He knew he should get back to England, but he couldn't. Not in his current state. He began sobbing in the solitude of the empty bathroom. He checked his phone and saw he had been in there for a good twenty minutes. Grudgingly, he pulled himself off the tiled floor and stumbled over to a sink.  
His face was red and wet, covered in tears. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was disheveled. He ran the cold water cupping his hands under the faucet then promptly splashed the refreshing, cool liquid on his burning face. The water took away some of the redness after about five or six splashes, but his eyes were still rather red. No fixing that, he thought, then ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to comb it and seem semi presentable.  
He came trudging down the stairs to the lobby where England was still quietly sitting obediently. He gave the American a small smile that once again seemed more concerned than anything and once again, didn't reach the glittering, emerald eyes.

"Come on let's go. We're done here." America's voice was strangely mono-tone and his eyes were rimmed red.

England followed America out to the car, and watched America curl up in the back seat pulling his knees up to his chest. The older nation desperately wanted to comfort him, but after observing America's behavior, he decided he had a bruised ego and questions would be answered in due time.  
When the two countries arrived home, the first thing America did was plummet onto the couch, his shoulders gently shaking.

"He acted like getting attacked by Russia was my fault…" He whimpered, "He told me the plan was to act like nothing happened because the fucking Russian government is offering a shit load of money to keep us quiet…" He began to sob harder, "Because of my economic mess. I'm reduced to taking a bribe, dude! A fucking _bribe!_ I hate this!" His body was racking with sobs.

England's jaw dropped, realizing it was no surprise the young nation was about to fall to pieces. How dare one dishonor a nation by taking a _bribe?_

"I know what you're thinking… forget it." America ran his palm over his eye, "I'm broke, man. I can't fight Al Qaida _and_ Russia…" The bright, optimistic glow that usually resided in his face was gone.

England tenderly wrapped his arms around the younger nation, "it'll be ok… We'll think of something… I promise we will." He whispered, gently rocking the American back and forth.

"I sure to God hope so…" The American whimpered, allowing himself to be held yet again.

The plane ride to Moscow wasn't so bad. America had slept the whole time and was accompanied by England (of course. The empire hadn't left his side since the incident with Russia and now that they were returning to the country it wasn't likely that he'd stop now) Canada, and France. The younger two of the four nation had slept the whole ride there thanks so some sleep aid France had given America to help him sleep and accidently to Canada because he spilled some of the power into his juice.  
Once they were in the hotel, they divided up the rooms. France and Canada took one room, and upon England's discrete request to France on the plane, England roomed with America to keep an eye on him. He did not wish for America to repeat his nightmare episode in the hospital to Canada or, God forbid, France.  
America plopped down on the soft hotel bed nearest to the window and groaned, making it painfully obvious his disdain towards the city and the country he was currently in.

"Englaaaaaaand," He whined, voice slightly as a result of his face being buried in the bedding, "I wanna go home…"

The Brit sighed as he unpacked his Union Jack cover suitcase, carefully placing the contents into his set of drawers on his side of the room.

"I know you don't, but as of now, you have to. It is part of your responsibility as a country and, though the circumstances are undesirable, you must own up to it. So I advise a stiff upper lip, chap!" He said kindly but firmly, hoping to spark a bit of encouragement in the American. However, he was greeted with America's famous blank stare from behind his (recently fixed; he had abandoned the contacts that aided his vision as soon as Texas was fixed).

"Why the heck would I want my upper lip to be stiff, dude? That's stupid" He said, stating his ignorance.

England simply shook his head taking his toiletries into the bathroom.

The World Meeting started as it always did. Countries wandered around and chatted, greeting their closest allies and friends, being noisy and enjoying the company of their peers. But this time, it was different. There was a certain tension in the air: and everyone knew why. _Absolutely everyone._ Though most were focusing on each other, almost every country strained their eyes or necks eyeing the doorway waiting for the country everyone wanted to see. Then he walked in, right on time.  
America smiled and carried on conversation as if he didn't realize that he was in Moscow and his tormentor from almost two weeks ago was just across the room from him. He carried on light, friendly conversation with Russia even, gaining everyone's silent attention.  
England felt somewhat ashamed watching the American totally force himself to disregard the fiend he was currently having a polite conversation with. Had England not raised him better? But he knew he could say nothing. After all, these were orders from America's boss… This infuriated England more.

"Man, that meeting took forever!" America sighed, strolling out of the conference building with Canada, France and England in tow.

France and Canada wanted to go to a little café, but America seemed reluctant. Sensing something was wrong, Canada gently tugged at France's sleeve, persuading him to stop pestering the dirty blonde. England wanted to go, but stood by America's side as America walked back towards the hotel. They hadn't gotten far when America stopped.

"You don't have to do this. You can go if you want," America said softly, "I honestly doubt that bastard will attack me in the middle of a World Conference."

England felt himself blush and bashfully ran his fingers through his scruffy, blonde hair.

"I know he would not likely attack you, but I want to make sure. I don't want you anywhere near him, either." England said, trying to draw in enough composure to seem as serious as he was.

The American sighed and gave up. England frowned. He just hasn't been the same, England though glumly when America failed to make some stupid remark. Then America stopped trudging forward and slowly faced England, giving him a very serious look,

"I'm Alfred F. Jones. And I'm the fucking Hero," he said, "I don't need a damn escort you limey!" He said, flashing a dazzling smile.

"Fine then you stupid Yankee!" England couldn't help but smile as well despite the American's crude terminology, "Let's settle this over some drinks."

"Agreed" America agreed, following the Brit to the hotel.


	4. Chapter 4

"To us, "France exclaimed, daintily raising his glass of merlot, "And our sexy selves of course."

Canada half-heartedly tapped his glass against his former brother's and set the glass down. He heaved a small sigh and poked around his food with his fork. France looked at the younger county and raised an eyebrow.

"Why so glum, Mathieu?" He quizzed.

"Oh nothing really…" He replied, continuing to push his quarter eaten, maple syrup-soaked pancakes around on his plate.

"Do not lie to me, mon cher. I know better," He stated matter-of-factly.

Canada took a deep breath and looked up from his plate and then slowly exhaled, "It's Alfred. I'm worried about him, Francis. He hasn't been acting right."

"He acted just fine at the meeting," France took another sip of his wine.

"You can't honestly believe that he was totally ok!" Canada snapped, his voice reaching a level above a hoarse whisper, "He even had a civil, non-screaming, not-at-all-Alfred conversation with Russia!" Canada resumed stabbing his food with his fork, earning a sigh from France.

"Oui… When you are right, you are right." France agreed, setting his fork down, "but England has been taking care of him… I was hoping he would join us today… but sadly, it appears we have a very different guest."

The bell above the café door rang twice in its high sing-song pitch. The soft-heavy click of boots made their way across the hardwood floor and stopped in front of France and Canada's table.

"Good day, da?" The thick Russian accent was soft and fluid.

France spoke first when he noticed Canada's knuckles turn white from tightly clasping his fork, "Ah. Hello, Russia. Enjoying your break?"

Russia nodded politely and took a seat. A waitress came by and asked for his order, which he politely declined and simply asked for water. When the glass arrived, he barely touched it. Three sat in an uneasy, awkward silence. Condensation collected and idled down the glass of Russia's nearly full cup. The waitress came by again, and sensing the tense atmosphere, quietly and politely asked them if they needed anything.

"The check, s'il vous plait." France responded in French, attempting to suppress a small smile as the young waitress swooned slightly.

She returned almost immediately, set the check down and scurried back to the kitchen giggling to her equally young and giggly co-worker. France reached for the bill, but it slipped from his fingers as Russia deftly snatched it from his grip, smiling smugly. He transfixed his violet eyes on the two and spoke calmly and certainly:

"I will happily pay the bill, but first, I must set down a few rules." He said with his trademark creepy grin.

Canada scowled while France seemed perplexed.

"Stay out of the affairs of the American. He is mine. Da?" He said, almost sweetly.

"No! He is my brother and I won't stand for this!" Canada's voice was the loudest France could ever recall, almost up to his brother's voice when calm. He had jumped out of his seat in rage.

Russia threateningly stood and narrowed his eyes, smile falling, "Then I suggest you sit so that you don't hurt yourself. That would be most unfortunate, da?" Russia's tone had a threateningly defensive edge to it, leaving Canada more than slightly intimidated.

Russia's small smile returned. He placed the proper amount of money on the table along with a generous tip. He finished off his glass of water in one thirsty gulp, and made a small satisfied noise. He spoke once again, "And this stays between us. Understood?"

He didn't wait for a reply. He calmly strode out of the café after bidding the two a "good day." They were both left perplexed and unsure what to do next.

_I don't know how I did it, _Alfred mused to himself, _but I got Arthur out of the bar only a little tipsy and not totally drunk off his ass!_

A sense of pride flushed throughout America. Normally the Briton would be completely and utterly inebriated to the point of seeming sober. But not tonight, no sir! Thanks to the hero of the night, of course! Oh how he bravely said, "No, England! Let's leave. No. You're done drinking tonight!" Then he had helped him right out the door and into a cab and headed towards the hotel.

England said he needed some air. So there the two nations sat, side by side, on an old wooden bench a short walk away from their hotel. America had lit a cigarette and ignored England's slightly slurred nagging, enjoying the warmth of the smoke and took long drags in spite of the elder nation. When he finished the cigarette, he firmly told Arthur to stay put, that he'd be right back. Arthur obeyed.

It took Alfred a moment, but he eventually found a trash can in which he could safely dispose or his cigarette bud. He nonchalantly tossed it in after making sure it was out then spun on his heel to head back to the bench where he prayed Arthur was still obediently seated.

"Beautiful night, da?"

America froze. He knew that voice anywhere. He slowly turned.

"It was until you showed up." America's voice was venomous.

"Oh do not be so crude, Amerika." Russia purred smoothly striding towards the younger nation.

America stepped back. He did not want to be anywhere relatively close to this freak. This ass, this fiend, this villain, this… this-

"Is cold tonight, da? But look how the stars shine." Russia said calmly, sweetly.

"Fuck you, your weather, and your shiny stars. The only stars I love are the ones in _my_ sky and the ones on _my_ flag." America spat, Russia merely chuckled.

"Do not be so rude, Ameri_ka._" He was amused when he noticed how the American cringed when he pronounced the younger nation's name in his dialect. He didn't bother to pay attention to America trying to correct him.

"So what the fuck do you want, you fucking commie?" America growled after he realized Russia didn't care how he pronounced his name.

"First, I am not communist. I am the Russian Federation."

"Whatever. Don't care. Just answer the damn question."

"I just so happened to see you smoking and thought I would say hello before I went home." His voice was too sweet.

"Well you said your hello, so bye." Russia grabbed the American's arm roughly before he could stray far, though.

"I have something for you." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, brown package tied together with a thin sting.

America looked it over with scrutiny, but eventually caved in to his curiosity and opened the package. Inside was a thick, warm-looking, crimson scarf with white and blue trim… America was frozen. He stared blankly at the article of clothing and gulped. He felt his lip tremble slightly. Russia gently took the scarf from him, his gloved fingers brushed against America's. He gingerly wrapped the scarf snugly around the American's neck.

"It looks good on you. Spokoĭnoĭ nochi Ameriki." He said smugly, and then strolled off into the night air.

America wasted no time getting back to England, who, thankfully was still sitting unharmed on the bench.


	5. Chapter 5

**American Inginuity Part V**

America's mind wasn't more than a jumbled mess after his encounter with the Russian. He halfway dragged his British companion off of the bench that he had been sitting on, through the hotel doors, up the echoing stairwell, and into their room. He could easily smell the booze on England's clothes and breath. The smell made him queasy though it never had before, then he realized he was so anxious he was about to vomit...

"Ugh... Dude. You smell like alcohol. No more drinking the rest of the trip!" America spat, utterly suprised that he had to be the "responsible one" when it was the Englishman's obession.

He shoved the Briton towards the bathroom, ordering him to take a shower. When America heard the shower head running, he changed into his loose-fitting, plaid ,flannel pajama pants and a semi-tight muscle shirt. He plopped down on the soft hotel bed. The scarf that Russia had wrapped so snuggly around his neck now lay abandoned in the floor in a corner of the room. He couldn't bare to look at it... so he looked at the ceiling. A blank stare crept across his features as he tried to clear his mind of all things. He didn't even hear the shower shut off and the bathroom door open.

England felt the much needed rejuvenation wash over him when the cool air gently swarmed him as the steam escaped the bathroom. His head throbbed slightly, but he knew he had avoided a devastating hangover that he'd have to pretend he didn't have for the next morning's final meeting (he knew it was America who saved him, but he'd never admit it lest he hear an 'I'm a hero!' speech). He walked out running a hand through his wet blonde hair. In the back of his mind he knew he should have taken his sleeping clothes into the bathroom, but a shower couldn't totally detox his body of the alcohol that he had previously consumed. He meandered over to his bed, his mind still blurred slightly from the drinks and grabbed some sleeping clothes from his drawers and changed quickly in the bathroom.

It was when he emerged from the bathroom again that he noticed America. He wished he hadn't. The younger nation was simply staring off into space, his glazy gaze locked on the ceiling above him as he lay on his back on his bed. His eyes seemed to glisten though, not totally dull and lifeless... this worried him more because the Briton realize that America was on the verge of _crying. _The mere thought of America crying was enough to stress England. He gently placed a hand on America's hand which lay limply by his side.

"America... Are you feeling all right?"

_ What a stupid question... _England thought, rather flustered with how ignorant his concern seemed. America blinked and turned his head to look away from England, but his hand gripped England's. The American's hand was rough and caulloused, large enough to almost completely cover England's, but it was warm. He gave England's hand a light squeeze.

"No." he replied, his voice to soft for comfort, "I don't think I am..."

He immediately began describing exactly what had happened to him while he went to discard his cigarette. England listened uneasily to every disturbing detail. America's hand was shaking. His hands _never_ shook._ Ever_. England crawled onto the bed and pulled America into his arms, holding him gently. He once again instated his soothing routine that seemed to so sucessfully lull America into a trance-like, relaxed state. It was becoming too routine for England's taste; the humming, running his fingers through his former colony's hair, shushing him if he began to tremble. Why couldn't he do this without it meaning America was on the brink of an emotional meltdown?

America began to relax. England's method's proved sucessful again, causing the Englishman to relax as well. Soon enough, America's soft snores could be heard through his partially parted lips. England gently manuvered America to were he could pull back the blankets, and he tucked America in. He softly kissed the top of America's head, then froze, realizing he that America wasn't his little brother anymore. He quickly crawled into his own bed and pulled the covers up to his chin and tried to get some sleep.

_**Author's Notes**_

First of all, thank you all for reading and for all the feedback! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Also; FLUFFERS! LOOK AT ALL THE **FLUFF**! (Because that's all I can write... Me sucks). Not mention I'd like to thank my awesome boyfriend who puts up with my weird fangirlness. You're precious, honey.

I'm sorry this chapter is so short. I was going to make it longer, but I'll just dedicate it to the next chapter I suppose. If you see any mistakes let me know so that I can fix them. (spelling and/or grammatic errors... you know the drill).

Thanks again for reading! I'll try to put all my Author's notes at the bottom so that you can get straight to reading. THANKS GUYS! Tootles.


	6. Chapter 6

It had begun to snow in Moscow. Nothing new to the Russian. He honestly did not care as he felt the uncharactaristic spring in his step. He hummed a soft Russian tune that he couldn't quite remember where he had picked up on his way home. Every thing was going exactly according to plan. The look that struck the American's face when he had so tenderly wrapped the scarf around his neck had been pricelss. Aboslutely Priceless. Russia would give anything to see the shock, fear, and sheer stupidity in the boy's face again.

When he arrived, he lit the fire place and put a kettle on for some broth. He knew that his boss would be calling soon when he lifted up his sleeve and saw the blinking light on the "bracelet" he was forced to wear that tracked his position. His boss had ordered him under strict house arrest and routinely called to make sure Russia knew he was in deep shit. Russia was insulted and humilitated by his boss' fearful and ass-kissing attitude towards the "land of the free". How could America be "free" when he so obviously now (or soon would, anywho) belonged to Russia? He chuckled. Might as well let all of them live in denile. His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing. He glanced at the clock. Right on schedule.

"Hell sir." He had to grind out the formal title.

"You took a different route home tonight, Russia." His boss stated coldly.

"Da." Russia respondly simply and thought to himself, _obviously you fool._

_"_Why?" His boss' voice was laced with cold rage.

_"_I needed a change of scenery." Russia said truthfully. It was best not to lie, but to cleverly weave his story to avoid arousing suspicion. He had mastered it by now and his boss took the bait. _What an idiot._

_"Fine,"_ His boss scowled, "But tell me next time."

He hung up. Russia was glad.

He heard the kettle scream, noticing the steam spewing from the spout alerting him that the water was at a boil. He poured himself a mug of broth. The Russian then set the mug on the counter to cool, and made his way over to a chest in the corner of the room. He opened the chest and under many blankets pulled out an ancient book.

It was an incredibly thick, large tome, easily over one thousand pages long. Its leather cover was a dark black with spots of navy, hinting that it had darkened over the ages and may have once upon a time been a rich blue. Even more old were the pages that had yellowed with age. Yet it was not the appearance that most intrigued Russia, but the text and content within the omnibus' pages.

Russia opened the book to a specific page that he had marked with a black ribbon. With in the context of the page were curses and charms. A book of black magic. Russia's secret treasure. He gently ran his index finger down the page, stopping and smirking when he found the spell he was looking for.

A spell with instructions to enter an idividuals dreams. How else had he known about the scarf? He was the one to implant the dream in the stupid American's head in the first place. All thanks to his precious book. With this book, Russia gleefully knew that he had the advantage he needed to manipulate America. Not even that pesky, stupid England could stop him. Afterall, every country knew that England had not used magic since World War II due to his leaders prohibiting him from it. But no one had even the slightest idea how conditioned Russia was or if he even had that strong of a grasp on the "supernatural", the silly fools! He shut the heavy book and lugged it back to its hiding spot in the bottom of the chest. He couldn't allow anyone (especially his boss) to find it lest it would ruin everything.

Once confident that his treasure was secure, he made his way up the stairs, into a dark study with a large window. He unlatched the window and let an icey wind swirl around him.

"Hello, старый друг." Russia greeted without much feeling.

"Oh skip the formalities, Rossiya." the wind hissed around him, "What do you want? You would not have summoned me if you did not need something."

Russia smiled ryly, his shoulders stiffened as he felt the icey wind dance around him. He spoke, his voice decievingly calm and steady, "Da. I need a favor."

"Favors come with prices, Rossiya, and I am not cheap." The wind chortled.

"Da. I am aware, but this favor is its own payment." Russia respond.

"Oh? You have my intrest. Let me hear this _favor._" It said.

Russia looked out to the snow settling on the ground below, and took a deep breath before pressing foreward, "I want you to make it snow. A blizzard, even. I want so much snow on the ground that no planes can get in or _out_ of the country."

The wind howled with a hoarse laughter, "You were not joking. Watching you cringe in the soul-crushing Winter is quite a treat for me! I will conjur a storm so fierce that the runways will freeze, but tell me, dear Rossiya, just who are you trying to trap? That is your plan, is it not?"

Russia just smiled, "We both know the answer to that, Генеральная."

The wind seemed pleased with this responce, and with one last icy blast, departed from Russia's house. Russia wasted no time latching the window shut. The snow was all ready beginning to fall in thicker flurries. Perfect.

He made his way down the stairs and spotted his mug on the counter... it was cold. However Russia did not care. He had just been granted what he needed; more time to formulate his plans and weave them together. He put the kettle back on contentedly.

_Soon, Amerika... I will have the marionette for your puppet strings, _he thought as the kettle could be heard screeching.

* * *

"Are you absolutely _positive_ no flights are flying out?" England said into the phone, his voice troubed.

"Yes sir, " The woman on the line said, "The runways are frozen and the snow is still falling. We had to cancel and redirect all flights in and out of Moscow. I'm terribly sorry for your inconvience."

"Oh. I see. Bollucks.. Well thank you." England hung up and turned to face America.

"Looks like the frog wasn't kidding. We're totally stuck in this popsicle of a country." he stated.

America groaned. That was just his luck wasn't it? To be stuck in the worst country on the entire fucking planet; Russia. And to make things worse, it was in _the middle of the fucking Russian winter._ What kind of a sick sitcom was this? He threw himself down onto England's bed face first just like a spoiled child who wasn't getting his way.

England sat on the edge of the bed and gently rubbed America's back. "Oh belt up, America. It isn't that bad." England said, trying to be stern and convincing.

"Nuh uh! It's gunna suck balls!" He whined, though his voice was muffled by the pillow he had his face buried in.

England sighed. Why did America have to act like such a brat? Of course he was right to some degree; the circumstances were not ideal under any occasion and he, too, was incredibly home sick, but did he have to _whine _and be so painfully obvious? He continued to gently rub the American's back, hanging onto some hope that it would cease his whining, but America would huff and groan in random intervals expressing his disguist even though he had already made it quite clear.

Finally England stood up with a huff of his own, "Well sitting around and moping in the hotel room all day won't do either of us any good. We might not be able to fly, but we can still walk."

"So?" America's muffled voice replied from the pillow where his face was still planted, "You expect me to _walk_ home?"

"No, you git. Let's go window shopping. I saw some quaint, little, local shops just down the street. It will be good to get out of the room." England argued, gently pulling on America's shirt in an attempt to coax him up.

"I'm not going... it's cold out!" He grumbled

"I also saw a coffee shop. You _would _like coffee wouldn't you?" England asked, smiling when he noticed America stir.

America grumbled incohertantly but rolled off the bed and threw on his coat and his shoes after combing through his hair. He glanced at the scarf in the floor. _Well it is a warm scarf and it is cold out..._ He reasoned, gently picking it up. _It's just a stupid scarf... what harm could it do?_ He thought as he cautiously wove it around his neck.

"What a lovely scarf, America. Where did you get it?" England asked.

"You don't remem-... Nevermind. Don't worry about it." He said. Of course England wouldn't remember, he was drunk that night. Sure when England had gotten out of the shower he told him, but when England had even the slightest sip alcohol, his memory would be shot by the next morning.

The shorter blonde shrugged and seemed to not worry about it anymore as he threw on his own coat and grabbed his room key and wallet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, America wished he had remembered.

* * *

America wouldn't admit it, but England had been right. Getting out of the stuffy hotel room had been a great idea. He and England had just entered the coffee shop and were all ready laughing and smiling, reminscing on nostaligic times without crossing any taboos (mostly meaning the Revolution or America's childhood were never mentioned).

England was estactic to hear that the coffee shop not only served coffee, many other beverages as well due to it being so close to the World Conference Center of Moscow. This meant tea was on the menu.

The two ordered (England's treat, as he said against America's protests because apprently heros pay for themselves) and sat by the window watching the pedestrians stroll by. For a moment, there was only silence between them. Yet it wasn't an uncomfortable silence that developes because there is nothing to say, but a silence that formed because the two were content sipping their preferred beverages and just being out of the cold. It lasted for a few minutes before they had each finnshed their drinks, then they headed out to explore the shops.

The pair visited several shops killing a few hours. When they reached the end of the street, England spotted a small shop that snagged his intrest. It was clearly rather old, but looked pleasantly worn from years of business. Something about it drew America in as well, though he wasn't sure what. He looked and saw England staring longingly at the shop, as if he already knew what it was.

Over the door hung a rickety sign proclaiming, "_Best Magic Shop in All of Russia!". _The windows were emitting a dull light and an equally old, handmade "open" sign with a rabbit inside a top hat and some old cards there were painted on sat right out side the door.

"Russia's best, eh? Well let's just see what there is to be offered!" England snorted, grabbing his American companion's sleeve, dragging him towards the little shop.

America blushed slightly when he felt the shorter nation's firm grip on his wrist, but he quickly regained his heroic composer before England turned towards him to say,

"It will only be a minute, ol' chap."

The Englishman then proceeded to investigate every little trinket and knick knack. What originally had meant to be a minute soon turned into half an hour. He murmur disapprovingly at some things during his evaluation, or make little sounds of appreciation at others. America casually followed him around with a small smirk in place, amused at how childish the English man seemed at the moment.

"Don't get too excited, Arrthur, or I'll have to tell you boss," America laughed.

England whipped around to glare at him, "Don't you antagonize me! I'll...wait"-he stopped glaring and his face became confused-"You addressed me by name and not by title..."

America bit his lip. For once, England's expression was stoic and unreadable, and America took this as a bad sign. He had screwed up.

"Well-erm- i-it's not _that_ big a deal, right?" America sputtered, desperately racking his mind trying to think of an excuse, a back-up plan, _anything_ to keep England from getting more upset.

"You haven't called me by name in years... but I suppose you're right..." He ran the back of his hand under his eye and his adam's apple bobbed.

America knew he was holding in a sob. _Great work, dude... You suck, _America thought, slowly backing away to give England space.

America wandered around the store aimlessly until a thought hit him; _hey I know! I'll get him a little magic thingy! One his boss won't suspect!_ He thought, obviously pleased with his own brilliance. He scanned the store and eventually came to a small room.

The room was dimmly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. All four walls were lined with mirrors of all different sizes. Some hung on the walls, some were tiny, handheld mirrors on little tables scattered through out the room in no particular pattern, and some were wide or tall full lengh mirrors. Just as he was about to leave assuming a mirror would be a lame apology present, he caught sight of a very tall, full lengh mirror in the far back corner of the room.

As he approached it, a chill ran through his bones. He looked into the mirror as an odd familiar feeling knawed at his memory.

_Take a good look, Amerika. This is your future~_

In America's reflection, Russia stood behind him with his hands on his shoulders _grinning._ America gasp and his eyes widened revealing lavender irises.

America screamed and turned on his heel and bolted from the room and out of the shop. He took off down the street. He yelped as he slid on the icey sidewalk, crashing into the ground. A sharp pain flared in his arm causing him to gasp.

He could hear quick-paced footsteps closing in fast and he attempted to scramble to his feet only to slip again. He was on the verge of panic when he heard a voice call out to him, equally distressed.

"_Alfred!" _England arrived at his side quickly and knelt beside the trembling American, "what the fuck was that all about?"

"He's after me, Arthur! _I swear to God he's after me_!" America spat, looking around like a mad man.

England grabbed America's shoulders and forced blue eyes to lock onto emerald eyes.

"No one is after you, Alfred. No one," he said quietly.

America simply stared at England in disbelief for a moment, then buried his face in the older nation's shoulder and wept.

Author's Notes!

**Wow. **I feel as if that this freakishly long chapter totally makes up for my lame-ass filler that was Chapter 5. Poor, poor America. I'm such a bitch to you.

I hoped you enjoyed. **_Please review! I find feedback very important in the continuation of my writings! _**


	7. Chapter 7

It had been a week. Exactly one week since that nasty, terrible _ awful _blizzard. One week longer than than anyone nations' intended stay in Moscow. The longer America had stayed, the worse he felt. He was jittery, paranoid, and his constant consumption of the disgusting, complementary hotel coffee and England's nagging wasn't helping. His dreams had become more vivid and they always centered around the Goddamn _Russian_. He was always there, every imposing and gnawing at the back of America's mind; like a poison slowly eroding through the sensitive tissues of skin until it hit something vital.

But it would all end soon. The storm was over. He was leaving Russia. That would fix the problem, right?

Bags were packed, goodbyes were said, and airports were being flooded.

Yes. The glorious, glorious airport was back in operation.

Yet America didn't have the energy to be as ecstatic as he knew he wanted to be. He was too tired. His mind felt like equivalent of the slushy, sloppy, watery snow that covered the city sidewalks. He could hardly focus enough to remember which gate was his. But he did because he knew he must. There was no room for error in his all-to-welcomed departure from Russia's capital. Never before had America been so elated to get on a plane in his life.

The flight was agonizing long and the taxi ride was even longer. He had received word from his boss as soon as the plane touched down that he was given a few days off to "re-cooperate" from his extended time in Russia. No doubt England had told his boss who told America's boss about his little "episode". As if it wasn't already embarrassing enough! At least England was in his own country now and America could breathe. He knew England meant well, but he wasn't his little brother anymore (Why couldn't England figure this out?).

He quickly paid the driver, thanked him numerous times, and gave him a rather generous tip. He then half-sprinted up the stone pathway to his beautiful country estate. His favorite place in the world. His sanctuary. _His home._

The estate was a beautiful white plantation-styled house, complete with columns and large windows. In the summer, rose bushes bloomed and the grass was soft and green. Yet the manor was just as majestic in the winter; even with the apple trees in their winter sleep, barren and lightly frosted.

America took a deep breath in through his nose, relishing in the nostalgically crisp, clean air. He unlocked the wide oak wood doors and stepped into the manor. He was instantly greeted by the soft, warm scent of Pledge and an air-freshener that smelled like fresh laundry. America smiled. It was nice to know his boss sent a cleaning crew to make the place welcome.

I'll have to remember to thank him, thought America.

As America was unpacking (although his definition of unpacking was throwing clothing into random drawers), his cell phone began to ring.

England.

America rolled his eyes, but smiled and answered, "Yo, dude. America here!"

"I suppose you're feeling better, git?" He said.

Alfred's smile grew as he could practically see the Brit rolling his eyes through the phone.

"You know it. I'm the Hero. I just needed to get back home. Russia and cold are my kryptonite you know!" America laughed.

"Yes, yes. I was just calling to make sure you were... okay." The Englishman said, somewhat hesitantly; Compassion was not his strong suit.

America laughed again, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm okay, Iggy. I got a few days off to relax."

"Ah. Yes. Jolly good. I'll let you get back to that then...WAIT? IGGY?"

"Later dude!"

The conversation ended with a click and America smiled. Maybe it wasn't so bad having England around to look after him...

* * *

Russia sat at home in front of the fire, fingers laced and brow furrowed in concentration.

America was in his home country.

This was a set back. He hadn't had enough time to draw him in. Though he had invaded his dreams, America was still fighting back. His mind was still strong...too strong. Russia knew tearing the American down would be no easy task, but he never suspect the idiot to have that strong of a will.

He turned his gaze to the warm glow of the fire. He smiled. The flame reminded him of the American, in a way. Beautiful to look at, pleasant to have around when one's world is so cold; yet devastatingly powerful. With one explosive temper tantrum, the boy could destroy a building, just as fire would decimate anything in it's path. Russia knew this much first hand.

What a fool he had been to summarize the boy was merely brute strength! The others might believe he was all brawn and no brains, but Russia knew better. He had been equal to the boy once, but what he would be a simply test of mettle, a mere "I can do anything better than you can!" contest, turned out to be a potentially deadly game of wits.

And America had won.

Russia's lips twitched into a humorous grin. Yes... breaking the American would be no easy feat. Russia knew he must be patient. He must remain calm and steadfast, determined and ever vigilant.

I must think of a new tactic, Russia thought, one that will _ really_ get inside his head.

The Slavic nation closed his eyes in thought. What was the one taboo Russia could cross without causing any truly harmful damage? A taboo that would crawl under America's skin and make him squirm? Make him writhe with discomfort? Yet not to so much damage so the boy would have another reason to shut Russia down?

England? No. Too far. They had become rather close in recent years and even closer in more recent events.

That was out.

Perhaps he mock America's States? No. America consider each state his child and treated each one as so. It would be unwise to bring America's "children" into the matter. This didn't concern them.

That was out, too.

Russia wracked his brain for _ anything_ he could use against America without provoking too much of a response. _Anything. _And then it hit him. A most devious and brilliant plan. Something he could use! It was neither insult nor jab, in fact, some would call it endearing. It was _ perfect_.

Russia knew that to get under America's skin he would have to use his name.

_Alfred F. Jones._

* * *

__Author's Notes

Can this be? An update? *derpface*

I have no excuses other than a lame-ass writer's block. Luckily, the drawing fairy came by over Christmas and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning drawing some fanart for this story. It was pretty fucking awesome. Plus, you guys are so patient... I felt bad so I had to do something. I must say, I thought this was going to be a filler, but LOOK, something happened!

**I used the power of foreshadowing.**

Baha. Anyways, thank you so much for all the reviews and patience with my writer's block. I came really close to abandoning this story so many time within the past few months... I'll try harder and I promise that there will be some confrontation in the next Chapter. I'm promise on the_ Awesome of Prussia. _(That's how fucking serious I am).

Ok, well thanks for reading. I gotta go to bed.

OH! Shout-outs!

~Wolferath: I kept my promise to update this by Saturday!

~PixelthelittlestFembot: For being fucking awesome.

and

~My boyfriend: For not judging me because I RP, write fanfics, and like yaoi. (Be jealous, ladies.)


End file.
